by P. C. Cast
“My namesake shall live again! And her lover will live as well, never to age, nor die, nor leave this city, until that time when she returns to him and they find the love that was stolen from them this cursed night!” Then her cry echoed through Tessa’s mind and she knew it was time to let go of the pain, to leave the agonizing prison of her body, to move on. And she could, but only because she knew she would come back again. She would return to Marcus one day. And he would be right there waiting when she did.
She closed her eyes, and sank to the floor amid the flames.
Two things woke her. The first was the feeling of water spraying her face, cool, blessed water. The second was the sound of the door being kicked in.
Tessa opened her eyes. She was lying on the floor in the center of her room. The sprinklers in the ceiling were dousing her and the entire place with water. And then Marcus was there, on his knees beside her, cradling her in his arms.
“I thought I saw flames. My God, are you all right?”
Thought he saw flames? But the entire room had gone up… Sitting up, blinking, Tessa looked around. There was a small ring of black on the floor where the oil from the lamp had spread, and burned. But nothing else in the room was damaged. Not the curtains or the bedding. The windows were intact. Even the dress Tessa wore was perfectly unharmed.
Marcus was stroking her damp hair away from her face. “Tell me you’re all right, my love, please.”
“I’m all right,” she whispered, staring up into his eyes, paying no attention to the others in the room, the hotel staff, and some firefighters who had just arrived. “More than that, Marcus, my beloved Marcus…I remember.”
He searched her face, her eyes, his own filling with moisture. “You remember?”
“It’s been so long, my love, so long. I love you. I love you, Marcus.”
He gathered her close, and kissed her as his tears of joy spilled over. And Tessa knew that she would never, ever be apart from him again. Neither in this lifetime, nor those to come.
* * * * *
RHYANNON BYRD
1
Southern Wales, early 1800’s
How could such an angelic smile be cast upon a monster?
The whispered words wormed their way through Rhys’s mind as he watched Alia Buchanan, daughter of the Merrick scholar he’d been charged to protect, make her way across the flagstone-covered courtyard. A lavender twilight was falling heavily over the hilltop where the ivy-covered Buchanan cottage sat nestled amidst the surrounding forest, the autumn air scented with the compelling blend of wood smoke and a distant storm rumbling on the horizon. Smoky shafts of purple and blue touched their fingers to the delicate angles of the young woman’s face, lingering over the gentle swell of her breasts…the long, flowing locks of her hair. If he wanted to retain his sanity, Rhys knew he needed to look away. And yet his eyes refused to obey the command, riveted to the sight of her mysterious expression as their gazes locked, then held, that soft, breathtaking smile still curving the sensual shape of her mouth.
No matter how distant he tried to be—no matter how rude or how savagely he scowled and glared—she always gifted him with that same goddamn, infuriating smile. And it was slowly driving him out of his mind, the threads of his sanity slipping through his fingers like spiraling streams of mist. No matter how hard he struggled, he could not catch them in his grasp.
Since the moment he’d first been introduced to Alia, Rhys had been obsessed with her. An unusual situation for a warrior who had never found himself fascinated with anything or anyone, much less a whimsical slip of a girl he could too easily break beneath his power and his strength. The Merrick blood of her ancestors—one of the original ancient, nonhuman clans—had been dormant in her bloodline for generations, leaving Alia and her father with bodies that were as vulnerable as any human’s. It was madness for him to even contemplate touching her, much less for him to fantasize about her to the point that she was a constant, aching presence within his mind.
But he couldn’t stop. And God only knew that he’d tried.
If it had simply been her physical appearance that enthralled him, he could have found a way to see reason and put her out of his thoughts. After all, he’d always been of the opinion that one pretty face could be easily replaced by another. But there was so much more to the pull that kept drawing him to Alia, despite how hard he tried to resist. She was too intoxicating…too fresh. He could only marvel at how she viewed the world, seeing it in a way that he was sure no one else did. Seeing it through eyes that could pierce and penetrate, slipping beneath even the most hardened, belligerent defenses. That was how he felt now, holding her dark blue gaze, the uncomfortable sensation swarming through his veins, giving him the impression that she could see him in a way that no one else ever would.
He’d have attributed the odd sensation to the fact that she was descended on her mother’s side from a powerful line of Reavess witches, but knew that it was more than that. There was something about Alia herself that resonated with him, allowing her to slip under his guard, drawing his attention again and again. Consuming his waking moments. Tormenting his dreams.
Despite the coldness in his soul, her smiles always swept through the icy depths of Rhys’s body like intoxicating, melting waves of heat, igniting a dangerous craving for things he could never have. With nothing more than that soft tilting of her mouth, the longing sincerity of her beautiful gaze, she warmed a place within him that had never been more than a barren, desolate sheet of ice. Ironic, really, considering he was a thing of fire himself. As one of the few remaining descendants of the Charteris, one of the original and rare European dragon clans, Rhys’s body held the power to become a lethal source of heat. A dangerous, deadly power that only intensified as his attraction to a woman grew stronger—and one that was capable of melting Alia Buchanan alive if he were to ever sink inside the lush, delicate depths of her feminine little body.
He craved her. Craved everything about her, from her scent to her taste to the thoughts that filled her head.
And that was why he couldn’t have her.
She was forbidden fruit that was going to get him into trouble, and he knew it. Had known it from the second he’d first laid eyes upon her five months ago, when he’d been sent to oversee her father’s protection. And yet Rhys could not take his gaze from her lithe, graceful form as she walked across the courtyard where he and four of his men had been vigorously training.
How in God’s name was he supposed to stop watching the sweetest, most beautiful thing he’d ever seen? Heart-shaped face. Impish freckles. Light brown hair that couldn’t decide between golden honey and autumn red. She was beautiful and wild, like an ancient goddess come to life. Her slim, winged brows swept over big, exotic eyes of a deep dark blue that reminded him of clear mountain skies. Full, pink mouth that made a man’s mind slip into explicit imaginings of what it would be like to sink past those glistening lips and seek the damp, warm heat within.
Though he’d done his best to understand his infatuation, he was no closer to comprehending why he couldn’t get her out of his mind than he was to knowing why she always smiled at him so sweetly—but then, his entire world had been off-kilter since coming to guard Matthew Buchanan. He was certain of only one thing—that he needed to end his obsession with the man’s daughter before it sent him reeling into insanity.
As if to tempt him beyond endurance, she chose to move in his direction as she made her way around the courtyard fountain, its gurgling rush of water often soothing Rhys in the cold hours of the night when he would stand in the shadows and watch her window, waiting for a glimpse of her profile as she prepared for bed. Her path brought her closer to where he stood with his sword still gripped in his hand, her scent carried to his nose by the gentle breeze, and he clenched his free hand into a hard fist as the warm, sensual fragrance of jasmine overwhelmed his senses. Her smile melted into his body, under his skin, making him uncomfortable and hot. Making something in his chest go tight. It
made no sense for her to waste that sweet, endearing expression on someone like him. Too often, women turned away from him in fear or unease—not that he blamed them. He was too big. Too scarred and hard and dark. Too goddamn scary looking.
And yet, as she moved past him, her soft, sweet smile seemed to be filled with a deep, desperate longing that matched his own.
You fool, he silently sneered. Angels don’t yearn for monsters.
Forcing himself to turn his back on her, he stiffly spun around, the wind chilly against his face now that her smile no longer warmed him. Doing his best not to breathe in her scent, Rhys stared out over the verdant valley below. All looked calm…peaceful, and yet he had the strangest premonition of doom. Of evil rolling in on the cool, crisp breeze. With a deep scowl settling between his brows, he stared over the endless rolling hills of green, searching for the unknown threat. Despite the fact that the months he’d spent there had been quiet, Rhys knew the circumstances could change at any moment. Buchanan’s work was so secret, few of the Consortium—the body of leaders who governed the remaining ancient clans—even knew of his research, or the fact that Rhys and his men were there to protect the father and daughter, but that didn’t mean the danger was any less real.
Before he’d been sent to the remote hilltop in Wales, Rhys had been told in secret that the Merrick scholar was working to uncover the hidden location of the ancient Consortium archives, which had been lost hundreds of years before, when the leaders had been hunted down and massacred by the human mercenaries who called themselves the Collective Army. The Collective was dedicated to destroying all preternatural life, which meant they too would be searching for the lost archives believed to hold the secrets of every ancient clan in existence. With the archives, they believed they could find the nesting grounds of each remaining clan and finally purge the earth of them once and for all.
But the Collective weren’t the only ones who would want to get their hands on the archives before the new Consortium could. Though for the most part the remaining ancient clans lived in peace with the humans, there were still those who dwelled in the shadows of darkness. Those who would seek the information in the archives to further their own dark agendas, whatever they might be. Rhys didn’t concern himself with the whys. As a member of the Consortium’s private guard, he protected without question those who needed protection, which was why he was there. A little more than five months ago, Matthew Buchanan had apparently made a significant discovery after a trip that took him south to Somerset, then east to London, before he returned home again to Wales. Rhys had not been told the nature of the discovery, but he knew that it was the reason behind the Consortium’s decision to increase Buchanan’s protection, assigning a full unit of guards to the cottagehold. And while the summer had passed quietly, Rhys couldn’t help but believe that something was brewing.
“Are you going to continue staring out over the valley, or are we actually going to finish this exercise?” a deep voice drawled from behind him. Turning, he found Barrett leaning his left shoulder against the stone wall that lined the east and west sides of the courtyard, a wry smile tipping the corner of the soldier’s mouth. A self-proclaimed “mongrel,” Barrett’s bloodline held so many different strains of nonhuman blood, he’d been left with bits and pieces of traits from each. He had an excellent sense of smell, as well as keen night vision, both of which made him an exceptional tracker. He was also strong, and fast, which made him one of the best sparring partners Rhys had ever had. Too often, the men in his command weren’t able to keep up with him during practice, his strength and speed too much for them.
Sparring with Barrett now would no doubt be a good release of the tension in his muscles, but it wasn’t going to help with the dangerous thoughts creeping through his mind. Slipping his sword back into the sheath that hung from the wide leather belt at his waist, Rhys met his friend’s curious gaze. “I believe we’ve trained enough for the day.”
“I thought that might be the case,” Barrett murmured, his dark gaze shifting to the setting sun as it melted into the horizon, the tight expression on his lean face making Rhys wonder what he was thinking. He’d have asked what was troubling Barrett, but his own thoughts were mired in turmoil and confusion. He was too restless to stand there and talk. He needed to get away…to escape, and it crossed his mind that he should head into the local village of Wolcott and find a woman to at least sate his lust and get his bloody mind off Alia, if only for a few moments.
Go to the village. Go, goddamn it, before it’s too late.
He scowled, suddenly turning to head into the forest before he could change his mind, thinking that the long walk would do him good, but Barrett’s grip on his arm pulled him back around. “Heading to the village?” his friend asked, releasing his hold, the knowing look in Barrett’s eyes telling Rhys that the man already knew exactly where he was going. And why. “I was going to suggest it myself. A big of a diversion will be good for you, Rhys. You look…tense. Best work out some of that aggression in a more natural way,” he drawled, “than taking it out on the rest of us.”
Rhys arched one brow at the grinning ass. “What are you complaining about? You’re still in one piece.”
Barrett’s white teeth flashed in a crooked smile. “I’ve faired all right, so far. But the others are growing weary of their injuries. ‘Tis the truth that you’re growing more…aggressive every day and the others are growing weary of their injuries.”
Shaking his head at the soldier’s teasing, Rhys said, “Just make sure that the men stay sharp,” and then he turned away. Raking one hand through his hair, he ground his jaw and once again forced himself to head toward the forest, in the direction of the village. It might leave a sour taste in his mouth, but he badly needed a distraction, just as Barrett had suggested. And while Rhys knew his trip to Wolcott wouldn’t ease his dark, insatiable craving for the innocent Alia, he prayed that he would at least be able to find a fleeting moment of peace whilst there.
2
As soon as Alia turned the corner, she leaned against the chilled wall of the cottage, one hand pressed to her belly, the other pressed against her chest. It’d been so hard to keep calm as Rhys had watched her make her way across the courtyard, the heat from that cool, pale gaze enough to make her skin damp…her heart race. Closing her eyes, she struggled to breathe down the crazy rush of sensation still pounding its way through her system.
Unable to help herself, she peeked back around the corner, just needing to soak in the breathtaking visual he made once more. He wore his thick, dark hair shorter than the other soldiers, but still long enough that the wavy strands spilled wild in the wind, begging for the touch of her fingers. His body was overwhelmingly large and powerful, telling the tale of his life as a warrior. Pale, silvery scars covered his dark skin, marking his arms and hands, as well as his beautiful, strong-featured face. Once, she’d even seen him training with his men without a shirt on, and her heart had broken at the sight of his abused back. At the thick, tangled scars that raised its surface.
He was wrapped up in black, from his boots to his shirt, same as he always was. The midnight color should have looked severe, but it somehow seemed perfectly fitting for Rhys. He didn’t need any color or adornment to make him more attractive. He was already too appealing as it was.
And then there were those eyes. Pale, wintry gray eyes. They should have looked cold…barren, and yet they somehow smoldered with heat, as if lit within by a burning flame. A spark of fire that turned the pale gray to molten silver, reminding her of the starry night.
There was so much bleak, wrenching loneliness in his eyes; it sometimes hurt just to look at them. She couldn’t help but want to change that for him. She wanted to bring sunshine and happiness to his dark existence. Wanted to hear him laugh, to be surrounded by the deep, rich rumble of sound as it broke from his chest. She wanted to see the bright, burning spark of joy in those soulful eyes, and know that he was at peace. That he felt loved…cherished. She wanted so m
uch for him, but didn’t know how to tell him…how to show him. God only knew she had the will—she just… She needed to find the way.
She watched, and listened, as he talked with the easy-going Barrett. Jealousy twisted through her insides as she heard the soldier mention the village. She might be an innocent when it came to the intimacies between a man and woman, but she wasn’t a fool. She knew precisely what men went to the village for—and she would have bet everything she owned that Rhys had no trouble attracting female companionship when he was there, whether it was bought or given freely. No, attracting women would never be a problem for a man like him. He was the most darkly masculine, purely male, utterly seductive creature Alia had ever seen, and she was completely enthralled by him.
“Not that he’s ever given you any reason to hope,” she muttered under her breath. At nearly twenty-four, Alia knew she was already well past what was considered her prime. It had never bothered her until Rhys had arrived to oversee her father’s protection, but now the knowledge burned like a physical pain within her chest. One she knew there was little she could do to ease. Despite the wonderful gifts she’d inherited from her mother, she had taken a vow to never abuse them, which meant that the brooding soldier would have to come to her of his own volition. She wouldn’t compel him with potions or spells, no matter how tempting it was to think of drawing his notice. Something other than those hard, angry glares he always gave her, as if it was a crime for her to be anywhere near him.
With her heartache locked tight in her chest, she watched his retreating back until Mrs. Blackstone, their cottagekeeper, called her name from the kitchen and then she finally pushed away from the wall, heading indoors. Alia went through the next few hours lost in her daydreams, wondering how she was going to finally get the dark, brooding warrior to talk to her. Mrs. Blackstone headed home to her ailing husband, leaving Alia to serve dinner while she racked her brain for a way to draw Rhys’s attention that wouldn’t make her look like a pathetic fool. Though, truth be told, she was no longer worried about her pride. As far as Alia was concerned, her pride could be damned, if it meant finding a way to get close to the mysterious soldier.
